


Antaeus

by aeli_kindara



Series: Supernatural Codas [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean in Hell, Episode: s13e08 The Scorpion and the Frog, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 05:58:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12881607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeli_kindara/pseuds/aeli_kindara
Summary: Dean has more in common with Luther Shrike than he knows.





	Antaeus

Luther rolls his head on his neck. He flexes his fingers, probes gently at the healing seam, then smooths back his hair. He jiggles his foot in his boot to settle the soil inside it back into place.

He stands up and starts to walk.

As long as he’s on his land, he can’t be killed.

\---

The Men of Letters bunker is impressive. He’d rather like one of his own.

His fingers itch to run over the spines of the books on the shelves, but he knows better. There are rules, for conjunctions like these. They may not be written, may not even be known, but Luther Shrike has spent too much time around crossroads demons to turn a blind eye to the balance of things.

The protocol is this: sit at the head of the table, fingers steepled, gaze low. Breathe in. Breathe out. Know the place from its air in your lungs, from its floor under the soles of your shoes. Wait.

The Winchesters are half an hour behind him. Only once both their guns are trained on him from the staircase above does he lower his hands and slowly lift his chin.

“Sam,” he says. “Dean. I’d like to speak with you.”

\---

To their credit, they don’t waste time on exclamations of  _ But you’re dead! _ or attempts to shoot him again. That makes this simpler; he likes that. They don’t put their guns away, either, but they trade glances as they make their cautious way down and step forward to face him, at either side of the table.

“This is your home,” Luther tells them quietly. “I won’t insult you by inviting you to sit.”

A beat of silence, a frisson in the air. Then Dean’s shoulders release a fraction, and realign. His eyes perform an upward revolution.  _ I do not take you seriously, _ they say. Luther imagines they have said as much to gods and demons and Lucifer himself.

“What do you want,” says Dean, scraping the chair loudly on the floor as he draws it out. Across the table, his brother is an imperfect mirror: quiet where Dean is loud, cautious where Dean is bold. He does not interest Luther as much. They both sit.

The question is not a question, so Luther doesn’t answer it. “Thank you for killing Barthamus,” he says.

The tide flows back between the brothers. Dean looks to Sam. “If you wanted him dead,” Sam says, “you could have done it anytime.” The gun on his knee is still aimed straight for Luther’s heart.

“No,” says Luther, “I could not. Doing so would break my deal, and send me back to hell.”

Again that settling and unsettling of the older Winchester’s posture. “You  _ wanted _ us to come after the bones,” he says.

Luther inclines his head. “I had allowed Barthamus to believe me less averse to the consequences of breaking my deal than I once was. He became anxious to retrieve his bones. I let slip that only a man who had been to hell and back could retrieve them. I hoped to meet you.”

Dean smiles, close-lipped, charming, deadly. “Well here we are.”

And that’s when Luther glimpses it: his master’s pupil. All that caged savagery, coiling and muscular, wrapped tight beneath a man’s skin. A hunger as bright as a knife.

His lips part without him telling them to. “You  _ are _ his,” he breathes.

Whatever it was on Dean’s face melts smoothly into stone. But Sam’s got his gun up again, braced in both hands and level. “What are you talking about?” he demands.

It’s a simple word. The beginning and the end of all things. “Alastair,” Luther says, and it comes out like a sigh.

Sam’s dance darts quickly to his brother and back again, twice. “You said you got out of hell,” he says. “Renegotiated your contract.”

Luther spreads his hands. “A deal is a deal, Sam. Ten years.”

“You spent ten years in hell.” Dean’s jaw is tight now, his voice a deep rumble.

“A hundred years, down there.” Luther smiles. “But you know that, don’t you?”

For a long moment, their eyes lock. Then Sam’s voice breaks through, a tremor harnessed to iron. “Alastair’s dead,” he says. “I killed him.”

Luther rolls his gaze back across the table. “Of course,” he says. “Why do you think Barthamus believed my willingness to return? I was Alastair’s heir apparent, once. Oh, don’t get me wrong,” he adds, smiling back at Dean, “I’m retired. Just a hobbyist now, really. Still…” He takes his time looking Dean over, searching out any chinks in the armor. He could find them, with time. Given the chance. Given his full complement of his tools. “I can appreciate the handiwork of a true master.”

Sam’s on his feet again, and it’s obvious that he’s quelling the shaking in his gun arm as he levels it between Luther’s eyes. “Get out,” he says, low and deadly, and Luther thinks there might be hope for him too, given proper instruction.

Still, it’s time to leave. “I’ve found what I came for,” he says smoothly, rising and inclining his head towards them both. “I thank you. I won’t trouble you again.”

Sam tracks his movements with his gun. Dean says, "Wait."

Luther watches Sam. Sam stares at Luther. Then, slowly, he turns his gaze to his brother.

“The first seal,” says Dean.

“Ah.” Luther tucks his hands in his pockets. “Why didn’t I break it, you mean? Why were you needed?”

Dean doesn’t answer, but a muscle flickers in his jaw, so Luther trails a hand over his shoulder as he walks past. He mounts the staircase and turns to look at them: Sam pivoting to keep his gun trained on Luther; Dean seated and motionless, profile half-hidden in shadow.

“I may have loved my son once, Dean,” he says, “but I was never a righteous man.”

\---

He leaves a note behind, tucked in the chest pocket of Dean’s jacket:

_ Let me know if you’re ever heading home. _

_ I’ll meet you there. _

_ LS. _

He hums as he walks. Across the fields around him, birds are singing; the wind blows their voices toward him, then away. In his boots, the blood-stained earth of his own home sings in rhythm. Luther walks to it, and smiles.

Dean Winchester is everything he could ever have dreamed of.

And Luther can wait.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're curious, I imagine this taking place when Sam and Dean first arrive home, before the beer-drinking scene at the end of the episode. But it could happen whenever.


End file.
